Distinctions Between Waking Life and Dreams
by SolarRose29
Summary: While working a routine case, Sam experiences a miracle. Set between Seasons 3 and 4


title from Sleeping At Last song "Mind"

* * *

Sometimes, Sam wishes people would stop messing around with things they don't understand. Like those scientists in that one Spielberg flick about dinosaurs. The one that he and Dean-

He aggressively turns the yellowed page of the book he's trying to read. It's getting late and he skipped dinner again. No wonder the words are incomprehensible. Hold on, wait. No. This text is in Hindi. He actually can't read it. And he's willing to bet the Impala that those idiots over at city hall can't read it either. Hence the Jurassic Park comparison. It seems as though the longer he's in this line of work, the more he realizes that humans really are the crazy ones. Isn't that what Dean told him, all those years ago when-

The cover nearly drops off the table when he slams the book closed. Then it tears even further when he snaps it back open because he kind of does need it. He's looking for a match to the symbols painted behind the bulletin board in the meeting hall. All he has to do is compare pictures. No reading required. That's what internet translating services are for. Once he knows which symbol they used to try and boost unity for an upcoming vote or whatever, he can undo the weird hive mind they accidentally unleashed. Dean would probably find it hilarious to see all those politicians-Stop. He repeats it to himself. Stop thinking about Dean. It hurts too much.

His motivation wasn't all that impressive when he started on this book over two hours ago. The lack of progress seems directly correlated to his apathy as he halfheartedly flips through a few more pages. There are any number of symbols, characters and sigils from any one of a dozen Far Eastern religions. He recognizes a couple. There's one that looks to be the ancient version of a common Buddhist healing charm. And another, created by Tibetan monks for meditation. And on the bottom half of the page, a squiggly one that originated in a rural village in Cambodia and only became known to the rest of the world when a traveling theatre group incorporated it into one of their puppet shows. He can almost hear the jokes being made about what a geek he is, and how he should be putting that brain of his to good use by memorizing the lyrics to every Led Zeppelin song instead of filling it with random boring facts, come on college boy-

That's it. It's time to go to bed. He pushes away from the table in the same instant the thought crosses his mind. Without bothering to close the book or organize his scribbles into anything resembling order, he stands and ducks into the bathroom. Splashes water on his face and grips the edges of the sink until it indents his hands. He avoids eye contact with himself while he brushes his teeth. Once he finishes, he clicks off the light and drops onto his bed, the one furthest from the door.

OoOOoO

Behind him, Ruby crosses her arms. "I don't think this is a good idea, Sam."

"I don't remember asking for your opinion."

She huffs, her own brand of irritated disapproval. The sound is so common these days, it's easy to tune out, which he does because a task of this magnitude requires all his attention. He concentrates, digs mental fingers through his consciousness, through his body, taps into the poison running freely through his veins. It responds slowly, the way it always does. But that probably has more to do with his own ethical misgivings than the power itself.

Raising his hand isn't necessary but it does help him keep his thoughts on track. He gathers the power in his chest, the easiest place to hold it. Closing his eyes, he pictures it. The swirls, dark and heady as Merlot between his lungs. He sends it up through his shoulder and then down his arm, squeezing past the elbow joint and on to his palm. From there, he sends it outward, curling tendrils of power that act as an extension of his will. It butts up against the door, tracing over the iron, licking across the pentagram. Then it plunges forward, sharp and dagger like, into the keyhole. He's an expert at lock picking and this time is no different.

The doors burst open. A furnace blast of sulfur escapes, belched from the depths of the Pit. Sam's anticipating the first surge of demons and easily holds them back. They squirm in his grip but he squeezes in return. Beyond the shapeless mass of evil, he can catch a glimpse of Hell. Jagged rocks cut into grotesque shadows by the light of eternal flames. Another swell of demons, more insistent this time, enticed by the open door. Sharks drawn to chum in the water. Ruby shifts nervously. As if Sam can't handle the hellspawn. He's doing just fine, thanks. As he restrains the blackened souls, ghosts flicker in the air. The shimmering mirages of innocents tricked, coerced, or stolen from Heaven's grasp.

He told Ruby this was just practice. A challenging exercise. And it is. But it's more than that. There's a reason he picked this spot. Out of all the ways into Hell, there's a reason he's standing in the middle of a cowboy cemetery, surrounded by Samuel Colt's railway. As the spirits appear and vanish randomly, he searches them. Runs his eyes over their translucent forms. He keeps looking.

A jolt runs through him and he nearly loses his footing, slipping back a little in the dusty grass. The demons are growing in number. And he may be strong but he's not that strong, not to the point where he can keep back the entire might of Hell's army. He waits until the very last moment. Waits until blood pours from his nose at the effort he's expending. Waits until the ghosts thin in number, slowing nearly to a stop. Waits until the horde of demons is thick enough to blot out the waves of boiling heat and Ruby is shrieking at him in a panic.

Only then does he hurl the doors closed, blasting the demons back where they came from. He knows he set free many innocent souls and proved that he's mastering his powers at an impressive rate. Ruby slips up close to him, pets along his bicep and praises him for a job well done. He wishes it felt like victory.

After bending the iron tracks out of the way, he leaves her there on the outskirts. He continues on alone, chest hollowed out. Though he would be hard pressed to tell if that empty feeling is because of the sudden swell and subsequent loss of energy, or something much deeper and much more painful. The plan is to drive. To drive and drive and drive. He doesn't know where but he figures three point eight million square miles of America is more than enough to get lost in. So he wants to keep driving but the car has a different idea. The needle dips to indicate empty. In the same moment, he passes a blue road sign advertising lodging at the next exit. Some coincidence, huh?

It's only because he can't keep going that he stops. He pulls in and the clerk isn't any more interested in small talk than he is. He gets the keys, and gets his bag. After a shower that takes longer than it should, requiring an intense scrub to get off all that dirt he had on him from that business with the Devil's Gate, he drops into bed. Without the light on, it's hard to tell, but he thinks he still has some dirt under his fingernails.

OoOOoO

When a knock on the door wakes him the next morning, his first thought is that it's the maid. She's coming around at six in the morning to collect the wet towels. Right. And Sam's just a sightseer passing through town. He considers ignoring it. Whatever animal, vegetable, or mineral is on the other side of the door is just going to have to wait until he's ready to join the real world. It might want to kill him but Sam kind of wants to kill it too so he figures they're even.

The something outside his motel room isn't going away. It's knocking louder and longer and damn if that doesn't drive the sandman far, far away. Sam's not getting any peace and quiet and he grudgingly disembarks from the cozy nest of blankets he'd built for himself. He's feeling particularly crabby because he used to be a morning person, tried to race the sun and see who got to the horizon first. But he's not anymore and that's annoying sometimes. And something else that's annoying? Knocking on decent people's motel rooms at indecent times.

There's a gun in his hand when he pulls back the swing bar lock because when isn't there a gun in his hand anymore. The sun's not quite risen but it's giving off enough light for Sam to stumble back. To trip up his lungs and shrink wrap his heart. His brain bottoms out and lands on his tongue, pinning it to the floor of his mouth. The weight drops his jaw and he stares dumbly.

"Hiya, Sammy."

Limply dropping his gun hand, Sam reaches out with his other. A tentative poke, just checking whether what he's seeing is corporeal or not. Solid flesh deflects his inquisitive finger and that's good enough for Sam.

He lunges forward and wraps his arms around his brother. Because Dean's here. He's back. Sam's stupid, reckless, crazy plan worked. And Dean was stubborn, determined, and crazy enough to go along with it. So he fists Dean's shirt and clutches him tight, squeezing hard enough to bend their ribs where their chests are smashed together. It takes just a fraction of a second and then Sam feels Dean's arms come around him too. He shuts his eyes and takes a long, shaky inhale.

Dean doesn't let go until he does. Sam releases the embrace and takes a half step back, huffing in embarrassed emotion. He runs his eyes over Dean, but he looks fine. Good, even. Jeans and shirt and jacket and a smile waiting on his face when Sam gets to that part. For another minute, Sam just stands there, drinking in the sight of his brother.

"Are you going to invite me in or…?" Dean gestures to the door left ajar.

"What? Oh, of course." Sam moves aside and lets Dean go ahead of him into the motel.

Once Dean gets inside, he seems to lose track of any plan after that, nearly causing Sam to bump into his back.

Sam gestures to the closest bed, because even after a month, he still rents a room for two. While Dean lowers himself into a seat, Sam perches on the edge of the other mattress. Their knees are so close, only a pencil dropped with the point facing down could fit between them.

"So…" Sam starts. He doesn't finish, too distracted by the living, breathing man across from him.

"So?" Dean prompts, meeting his gaze steadily.

"Uh," Sam shakes himself. Clears his throat. "So what happened?"

Dean blinks, uncomprehending.

"What happened?" Sam repeats. Elaborates, "How'd you get out?"

"Oh. That." Dean's gaze turns inward, his eyes moving minutely as he shifts through memories. He finally lifts them to Sam. They're wide and frightened. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Sam raises his eyebrows.

Dean nods earnestly. "I can't remember."

Sam purses his lips. "Do you think maybe you were one of the ones that crawled out?"

"Crawled out? What do you mean?"

"When I-when the Devil's Gate was opened?"

Dean tilts his head, considering. "I think...I think maybe I did."

"Just like Dad," Sam says, that particular wound long since healed into scar tissue.

"Just like Dad," Dean echoes, sounding more sure of himself this time.

A wave of relief, happiness, and triumph washes over Sam and he springs off the bed, begins a tight circuit of the room. "It's good to have you back, man." He's almost able to keep his voice steady, it only wobbles a little bit.

Dean's just watching him, that small smile still in place. "Yeah. It's good to be back."

When tears film his vision, Sam roughly digs a knuckle into his eyes. Pushes them back inside his skull. He drops his hands and turns to Dean. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving," Dean asserts. "I feel like I haven't eaten in weeks."

"Okay, you stay here. I'll go get you something," Sam says that but he makes no move toward grabbing the keys.

"Sam. Food?" Dean reminds.

"Yeah, no. I know." The keys jingle when Sam scoops them up. "I'll be right back."

A sort of haze comes over him and he doesn't remember getting into the car or driving to the closest fast food joint but all of a sudden, he finds himself in front of a girl in an orange shirt and a ponytail, who's asking him what he wants. 'I already have what I want' is on the tip of his tongue but that's not the appropriate answer to the question in this situation so he orders a number one. Extra onions.

On the drive back, the rational side of his brain comes back online. And it begins relentlessly poking holes into his good mood. There's nothing that sours his joy faster than a bunch of, admittedly reasonable, doubts. It does seem unlikely that Dean actually got out, doesn't it? With how hard the Winchesters have fought against the forces of evil, Dean probably got the downstairs version of supermax. There's no way they let him escape so easily. What if Sam just imagined the whole thing? Too much wishful thinking and too little sleep? The idea that Dean might not be there when Sam gets back has him pressing the accelerator further. It's a miracle he makes it back to the room in one piece, and without a police escort.

He has no intention of explaining to management how the new dent in the wall got there from swinging the door open too hard too fast because he was afraid he was hallucinating that his dead brother had been resurrected from Hell. The new dent in the wall is the last thing on his mind when he finds Dean sitting on the closest bed, exactly where Sam left him. Sam sags, the adrenaline whooshing out of him like air from an untied balloon.

"Sam, the food!" Dean calls out.

He's not quick enough and the breakfast sandwich ends up smashed and unappealing. But Dean gobbles it up like he's never seen food before in his life. Sam knows he probably appears ten kinds of crazy, what with the way he's staring, but he can't make himself look away from the rotation of Dean's jaw, the bob of his adam's apple when he swallows, how his tongue peeks out every now and then to mop a streak of grease from his lip. He's so fascinated by Dean's eating habits, the exact ones that used to gross him out, that the ring of his cell phone doesn't register.

"Are you gonna get that?" Dean asks, cheeks full of sausage and onion the way that always triggered Sam's Table Manners Lecture pt. 3.

The phone trills again, impatient. Sam fishes it from his pocket and the name on the screen reminds him about all those missed calls and voicemails he meant to return. Leaving Dean to finish off the rest of his meal without Sam hovering like a nature show cameraman, he steps out into the maturing sunshine before he answers.

"Hey, Bobby."

There's a pause on the other end. Across the lot, the manager collects the morning paper at the end of the sidewalk. "I didn't think you were actually going to pick up."

"Yeah," Sam exhales. "Sorry about that."

"It's okay, son. I know things ain't exactly been easy. And I don't mean to keep pestering ya." Bobby clears his throat. "So, I uh, just wanted to check in with you and see how you were doing. I haven't heard from you since...well, since...you know. How are you, Sam?"

"Never better."

Another silence, just as stunned. "What do mean by that?"

"I did it, Bobby. I did it." The news bubbles out of Sam like a soda from a shaken can. "I opened the Gate and he climbed right out."

"Damn it, boy. I told you not to-"

Sam cuts him off. "It's okay. I had everything under control. Only the good ones got out."

"Only the good ones? What the hell you talking about?" Bobby doesn't sound stunned anymore. He sounds angry.

This is not the time or place to tell Bobby about his demonically funded superpowers. He changes the subject. "Dean's back. He's here with me, Bobby."

It's just one more of Bobby's talents that he can communicate so much with a quiet moment across a telephone.

"Bobby, did you hear me? Dean's back."

"Yeah. I heard you. But Sam," Bobby takes a deep breath. "Are you sure it's really him?"

And there's ice cubes trapped between Sam's shirt collar and the knob of his spine. He slowly looks over his shoulder, peers through the slit in the curtains. The juncture of Dean's shoulder and neck, along with a good bit of his torso, is visible. Sam mutters a string of curses. There are a lot worse possibilities than Dean being a hallucination. Bobby's probably talking again but Sam's closing the phone softly and heading for the door. He opens it quietly, as if he might catch Dean in the act of doing something that will tell him whether it's truly his brother or not.

The scent of fried eggs hangs in the room, though the empty foil tells him all edible parts of that order are now residing in Dean's stomach. If it is Dean. Warily, no sudden movements, Sam dips his hand into the weapons duffel set on the chair just to the side of the entryway. His hand closes around a silver knife and he carefully passes it to his other hand. Dean hasn't noticed him yet, just sitting on the bed, facing the blank television screen. After another moment of rooting around, Sam finds the flask of holy water. For time reasons, and a lack of hands, he's going to count Dean's eating of the salted hash browns as proof that he's neither ghost nor revenant.

Duly armed, he inches closer to Dean. Or the Dean shaped creature. Could be a shifter. Could be possessed. Could be, might be, probably is. Why didn't Sam think of this sooner? Why would he immediately invite this thing in without taking into consideration that he's a Winchester and Winchester's never get a break? But he's going to get the drop on it and whatever it is will know Sam's wrath when he finds out it's using Dean's face. He's so close now. Almost…

His phone rings and he jumps and Dean spins around and then Sam thinks 'to hell with it' and leaps forward anyway. Either being dead has made Dean rusty or else this impostor hasn't matched Dean's usual reflexes because it moves but not faster than Sam. After a bit of a scuffle, during which his phone falls out of his pocket and ends up under the bed, followed quickly by the blankets dropping to the floor and then Sam and Dean themselves, Sam manages to snag one of many flailing arms. He jerks the knife across it. Fresh, flowing red blood comes out but Sam's not done yet. His long legs come in handy as he puts them to use as buckles around Dean's middle to keep him from standing. A liberal dose of holy water goes into the cut. And somewhere along the way, in the middle of all the commotion, a good deal of it gets in Dean's face too.

As soon as the flask's empty, Sam scrambles away. Knife still in hand, he gains his feet, watching carefully for any sign of smoke, hissing, or inhuman growls of pain. The coughing and sputtering and cussing, while indicators of annoyance, are not cause for alarm. Dean is human. A caught off guard, bleeding, wet human. But human all the same and that's what counts.

"What the hell, man?"

His knees seem to favor taking random vacations this morning and so Sam finds himself back on the floor. He reaches out and grips Dean's shoulder, not really in apology because he did what he had to do but he's glad Dean is Dean.

"Seriously, what the hell?" Dean's cradling his arm, the one with the untidy gash in it.

"Just had to be sure," Sam breathes.

Dean rolls his eyes and goes off in search of a couple of towels; one to dry off with, the other to apply pressure to his cut. While he's gone, Sam fishes the phone out from among the dust bunnies and ew, someone's forgotten sock. Bobby again.

"Sam!"

"Yeah, it's him." Sam doesn't know what could be more important to say than that.

Bobby's always been suspicious though. "Did you-"

"Salt, holy water, silver. He passed them all."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

There's a noise that may or may not be a sniffle from Bobby's side of the conversation. "Well I'll be. I never imagined...can you put him on?"

Sam glances behind him. "He's in the bathroom right now."

"Alright then, you boys hightail it to my place right away, you hear?" Bobby demands.

In the middle of a nod Bobby can't see anyway, Sam spies the books and sheets of photocopies piled on the table. Takes in the weapons bag on the chair and switches his response. "We'll be there as soon as we finish up this hunt."

Bobby grumbles but can't do much else except settle for the slight delay. "Fine. But then you come straight here. No stopping to see the sights."

"You got it." Sam finishes the call and hangs up.

Since Dean is still cleaning up, Sam takes the opportunity to refresh his memory on the hunt's details. Instead of the usual police reports that he's expecting, the research seems to be focused on cult symbols. There's a newspaper tucked under everything else, the headline proclaiming bizarre behavior from the city's leaders. The city that is apparently in Virginia. But wasn't Sam just in Wyoming? He must be getting his days mixed up; without Dean, things always seemed a bit hazy. Opening the Devil's Gate probably happened recently and when he thought it failed, he came here. And then Dean caught up and now things won't be hazy anymore. They'll be just fine.

OoOoOoO

"So you really don't remember anything?" Sam's leaning so far across the table, Dean's glass of soda will probably file a restraining order against his elbow.

Dean pauses, fry held in suspension over a gelatinous ocean of ketchup. He looks up at Sam from beneath raised eyebrows. "Do you want me to?" Like he's serious. Like he actually needs to know if Sam's hoping his head is stuffed full of unimaginable torture. Like Sam's answer will dictate his reply.

"No. No, of course not." Sam slinks back to his side of the table.

Dean goes back to his fries.

As it turns out, coming back to life is actually pretty exhausting and Dean lies down as soon as they get back to the room. He sort of falls into bed like he's doing a belly flop at the local pool, fully clothed and snoring before his head even hits the pillow. Because he's a good brother, and because he doesn't know what else to do, Sam takes the blanket from his own bed and sort of drapes it over most of Dean until he ends up looking like a poorly frosted cupcake.

After settling into the chair at the table with the intent of finishing up his research, Sam starts thinking because his brain never quite learned how to shut up. He wonders if cotton blankets feel too much like Hell fire. He wouldn't know. And now that he's thought the thought, he can't stop thinking it and he's watching from the edge of his seat, leg muscles coiled to give him the lift off he'll need to spring to Dean's side at the first indication of discomfort. But Dean's sleeping like a rock. Huh.

Sam was expecting nightmares. It seems logical, given what Dean's been through. If earthly monsters are enough to mess with a man's dreams, then what will spiritual torture do? But again, Dean's quiet. He twitches occasionally, gives little hums and snorts of slumber as he shuffles his body around into more comfortable positions, but that's it. There's no clawing at the covers, no twisting away from unseen enemies, no blood curdling screams. It's everything Sam could have hoped for.

His cell phone rings and he scrambles to answer it quickly, before it has a chance to wake his oddly peaceful sibling. As he takes the call, he makes a mental note to switch off the ringtone, let the vibration be notification enough. He's getting really tired of having a heart attack every time someone tries to get in contact with him.

"Where've you been?"

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "Hey Ruby."

"When you didn't show up last night, my first thought was that Lilith got you before you could get her."

Great. Ruby sounds like she's in the red zone on the annoyance meter. Sam exhales heavily.

"Yeah, about that…"

"But then I realized that if that were the case, she would be celebrating. And since the only headline on the evening news was a peanut butter recall, obviously she's not out making three layer cakes from human intestines."

That excessively graphic picture has Sam grimacing. "Look, we need to talk."

"You got that right. I'm in Fairfax. How long will it take you to get here?"

"No, Ruby-"

"Okay. Fine. I'll come meet you."

Sam's impatience gets the better of him. "Ruby!"

Dean grunts. Sam holds his breath. When all Dean does is roll over, still asleep, Sam exhales and then goes outside.

"Ruby, something's...happened."

"What?"

He's got her suspicions good and riled now. "I think…" That's not the right way to go about this. He starts over. "I'm grateful for all you've done for me. I am. But I don't need you anymore."

There's complete silence from her side. Not even the slow breaths of her host body because the poor girl's most likely dead anyway. Sam's already cringing, anticipating her response.

For some reason, he's picturing that breakup Dean had with a girl in Wisconsin. Dean was a junior, which means Sam would have been in seventh grade or so. He remembers it clearly. They were on their way back to the motel of the week when Kimberly caught up with them. He never liked Kimberly, which turned out to be the right opinion to have because Kimberly ended up being an obsessive, possessive girlfriend, which was not something either of the Winchester boys were looking to get caught up with. So Kimberly tried to claim Dean's time for the weekend and Dean decided he'd had enough of the crazy so he broke up with her right there in front of RadioShack. And boy, was there shrieking. And tears. Lots of tears from crazy, obsessive, possessive Kimberly. But mostly shrieking. Sam remembers that because it kind of scared him away from dating for a solid eight months.

And Ruby's been known to throw a few fits in her time. So yeah, Sam's bracing himself for the coming storm. She doesn't keep him waiting long. She starts off with a rant about how much of an idiot he is, before moving into a tirade on why Lilith has to die and he's got to be the one to kill her, until finally ending with a demand to know just what happened that could be so important as to transform the great Sam Winchester into a coward.

"Dean," he says. It's all he needs to say. It's all he's ever needed to say.

Ruby's derisive laugh at the name holds the same amount of disgust and dismissal she'd always shown Dean face to face. "It's been weeks, Sam. I think it's a little late to try and keep your brother's dying wish, isn't it?"

Sam clears his throat. "That's just it. He's not dead. He's back."

"That's not possible."

"I know. I thought the same thing. But he's here. He's really here."

"Then you need to run. Because there's only one way people come out of Hell and it's with black eyes."

Sam's already shaking his head before she even finishes. "Dean is Dean. He would never hurt me."

"I know you want to believe that, but that's not your brother anymore."

"No, I mean he's actually himself. He's human, Ruby."

He can practically see the way Ruby must be standing: left hip jutted out, cell phone in one hand, the fingers of the other drumming along her thigh.

"There's something you're not telling me. What is it? Is he a drooling mess of hallucinations and nightmares? A sack of bones with more scars than skin? Muttering to himself and attempting self-harm with the closest pointy object?"

"What? No." Sam shudders. "None of those things. He's completely fine. He's...he's Dean."

"That's not possible."

Geez, Ruby's a broken record sometimes.

"I'm telling you, it is." Sam tilts his head. "Besides, you're one to talk. You got topside and you're just fine."

"Okay, first of all, we both know I'm not human. Like I said, the only way out is through demonic transformation. And second, I wasn't exactly squeaky clean when I got to the Pit. Your brother though...Sam, you might have had your issues with Dean, and I'm not saying the pope's going to bestow a sainthood on him anytime soon, but Dean was pure. And his soul...Hell is designed to burn away a soul's humanity. Sinners go to Hell, right? So most people, it's really not so much torture as scraping away the shiny coating to reveal the ugly underneath. But Dean had more than a varnish of goodness. He was good. So tell me, how does a Righteous Man go through Hell's flames and come out unchanged?"

OoOoOoO

Apparently, Post-Hell Dean is just as annoyed by Sam's constant scrutiny as the Pre-Hell model. "What?"

"You're quiet," Sam answers.

A rotation of Dean's head this way and that, taking in their surroundings. "Yes, I am," he whispers, "because we're in a library."

"I know that. But you don't normally-"

"Shh." Dean holds up a finger and, in a weird role reversal, shuts Sam up.

Sam frowns but can't argue since Dean's got the entire staff of the public library, as well as all the posted signs politely requesting silence, on his side. He hadn't been able to argue with Ruby either and that's really what this is about. He had no answer to her question and he's been puzzling over it ever since he hung up on her. Despite perpetual surveillance, Dean hasn't yielded any clues. Sam still hasn't decided if he's relieved or frustrated about that.

When it's time to leave, Dean follows Sam outside. Without his customary impression of a convict being released from a twenty year stint in the big house. They go back to their room and Dean suggests going out.

"I don't know, man. Can't we just order in tonight?" Sam sighs, already pulling his boots back on though because Dean will get him one way or another. Guilt, goad, or drag.

"Okay."

The lace leaves a faint impression of rope burn on Sam's palm when he jerks straight up on the bed. He squints and tries to figure which category Dean agreeing with him goes into.

"What do you feel like?" The motel's conveniently provided paper listing fast food delivery options floats in front of Sam's face. "You pick."

Waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the part where, no matter what he picks, Dean will declare that he made the wrong choice and all those options are stupid and they're going out and Sam will just have to suck it up and be happy because they're going to the nearest bar to relax and live a little, Sam doesn't take the proffered menu. Surprisingly, Dean doesn't let it go. Just keeps it hovering like a private chopper on standby. Sam expects him to toss it onto the floor, stating that if Sam won't choose then Dean will. But Dean doesn't do that either. He keeps holding it, offering it with his mouth shut, as if he's sincere. Sincerity was never one of Dean's strong suits.

When the first minute rolls into a second one and Dean hasn't laughed or thrown anything yet, Sam gets uncomfortable enough to speak. "Actually, I'm not that hungry."

"Yeah, me neither." Dean replaces the card, back in its proper spot instead of relocating it to a new habitat on the flat carpeting. Then he settles back against the headboard and watches tv.

It's like those jars of peanut butter and jelly. The ones that come with both flavors in one. Brown and purple squashed up against each other. And yeah, they are supposed to go together, aren't truly complete without the other. But there's something off about having them mixed together before they're on the bread. And that's what this feels like. The whole routine is normal and everything Sam wants but it's not supposed to come out like this, him and Dean all squashed up until it's hard to tell where Sam's opinions end and Dean's autonomy begins.

An anchorwoman in a purple blouse is alerting the audience to the surprising connection between Tupperware and cancer. Sam glances at the screen but the shirt isn't too revealing. It's tasteful and flattering but nowhere near revealing enough to capture Dean's attention for this long. And there's no way Dean's concerned with the latest list of secrets people's doctors are keeping from them. Sam clears his throat.

Dean's hand automatically goes for the remote but doesn't push any buttons yet. "Sorry. Do I need to turn the volume down?" He gestures at the papers Sam's leafing through.

It's only the two hundredth and seventh attempt Sam's made at cracking this case. Resurrected siblings are quite the distraction apparently. This should have been an open and shut case, solved and tied up with a ribbon in less than thirty-six hours. But Sam's had a lot going on and hasn't made much progress since Dean miraculously showed up on his concrete doorstep.

"What are you watching?" Sam asks.

"The evening news?" Dean's voice lifts at the end, like he's nervous about how Sam will respond.

"Dean, you never-" And Sam catches himself. Because maybe this is the new normal. Maybe being quiet in libraries and watching dramatized news stories, basically just following social norms, maybe that's who Dean is now.

Ruby said Dean had to have changed. At least, that's what she meant between all her repetitions of how impossible it was for him to come back at all. So Hell turned Dean into an average Joe. Right.

"I thought you liked watching the news," Dean mumbles.

"Yeah. I do." Sam emphasizes that part. "Why don't you put on something you want to watch?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Casa Erotica or whatever it is you like."

Dean draws back, nose wrinkled in disgust. "Dude. That is not a group activity. There's no way that I'm-"

"Okay!" Sam throws his hands up. "Look, I didn't mean right now. Just turn that thing off, will you? I'm trying to concentrate."

Like a scolded child, Dean quickly jabs the power button. Sam goes back to the papers and only looks up when he realizes the room is too quiet. The tv's off. The radio's off. The shower's not running. There's no humming, tongue clicking, or imitation fart noises being made. Concerned, Sam looks over to Dean's bed. And finds it empty.

His heart changes gear, a bit of a stall in the engine. The shock vacuums the air from his lungs and they forget how to fill up again. When he stands suddenly, the chair scrapes against the floor hard enough to leave scuff marks for the next guest that rents this particular room. The only thought running laps in his mind is that Hell came back for Dean. Hell came back for Dean. Probably found some loophole about him not serving his full time and so they decided to take it upon themselves to extradite him and Sam shouldn't have been so quick to burn his bridges with Ruby because now it looks like he is going to need her help after all if he ever wants to track Lilith down and pry Dean's contract from her grubby little demonic fingers.

There's a reason people make day trips, not homes, out of amusement parks. Humans aren't meant to endure continuous roller coaster momentum. But Sam's been on this up and down rush for days now and he's sped right past nausea into misery. He can't take this. It's times like this that make him understand why Dean made that foolish deal in the first place. He could never approve of it, but at least sometimes he gets a glimpse into the massive despair that births a ruthless need to do whatever it takes to fill that incomprehensible loss of friend-confidant-partner in crime-protection-trust-faith-family-brother.

"You okay?"

At some point he ended up on his knees. Good to know. There's a knobby something digging into his leg. If he cared to look, he'd find a piece of gravel that had gotten dragged in from the parking lot. But Sam doesn't care about gravel. He cares about Dean sitting in the chair at the table, wearing that familiar expression of worry that only Sam can put on his face. Sam doesn't get up right away. His pulse and his breathing need to recover first so he's going to take a minute. See, roller coaster.

"Seriously, Sam. You're not having seizures now, are you?"

The vague hand flapping near tabletop level will have to be reassurance enough for Dean. Sam's not ready for words yet. Eventually, his vitals resume their regular broadcasting schedule and Sam resumes his seat. With a smile, Dean glances down at Sam's research again. And his eyes are drawn to the oldest book there and he's just kind of staring at it and not doing much else, to the point where Sam has to clear his throat and tap his knuckles against the table loudly to break Dean away from it. Startled, Dean jerks into action and starts shuffling through Sam's stuff, gathering up papers and books and post it notes.

"What're you doing?" Sam asks, placing his hands in his lap in case Dean gets overzealous and tucks them into one of the stacks he's making.

"Helping?" And there's that self-conscious key change in Dean's voice again.

Sam frowns.

"Unless you don't want me to." The stacks stop getting made.

"Do you even know what we're hunting?" Sam queries.

Dean's eyebrows form a huddle, conferring with one another before he submits an answer. "A rouge tattoo artist."

It's going to be a long night. Starting from the beginning, actually Sam can't quite remember that part. Starting from the middle, he explains the case to Dean. Sam was right. Dean does think hive mind politicians are hilarious.

OoOoOoO

"Man, I hate witches."

They're parked under the cover of a tree as old as the town itself, hidden from the streetlights, but Sam doesn't need to see to know the exact face Dean's pulling.

"Yeah, I know you do." The binoculars aren't really all that helpful, since the city council meets behind closed doors but it gives Sam something to do, so he looks through them.

"If you ask me, these people are getting exactly what they deserve." Dean crosses his arms and nestles further down in the driver's seat. "Messing with magic is never a good idea. But messing with magic when you don't even know what you're doing? That's just asking for trouble."

"Hey, I think they're done." A dozen men and women, in matching brown pants suits are filing out into the lobby.

Dean perks up instantly. "Show time!" He double checks the gun in his hand and turns to Sam. "Alright, I'll keep their attention while you put up the counter-spell."

The car door is already being pushed open before Sam thinks to grab Dean's shoulder.

"Dean, wait!"

Impatient, but unable to ignore the urgency in Sam's voice, Dean halts with one foot on the grass outside.

It's not like there's an easy way to say this so Sam sighs. "You don't need to do that anymore."

The gun glimmers faintly in the dark when Dean gestures with it. "I don't need to shoot these stupid sons of bitches full of bullets?"

"No, I mean. You don't have to protect me." A hand held palm out stops the protest Dean wants to launch. "Things...happened while you were gone." Sam lifts his chin. "I grew up." Maybe it's better that the car is cast in shadow. Sam doesn't know how long his resolve would last if he could see the hurt that's got to be painted clear as day across Dean's lips and shining out of his eyes. "So I was thinking we could do this more like...partners. You know. Equal footing."

Now's the part where Sam holds his breath. He's pretty sure Dean's not going to agree. Dean's never ever agreed to treating Sam like anything more than a snot-nosed tag along that he has to take care of.

"Huh. Okay."

If eyebrows could make noise, Sam's would have roared like a Boeing 747 during taking off as they race up his forehead and disappear into his hair. "That's it? Just 'okay'?"

"Yeah, I think so. Why? What did you want me to say?" Dean doesn't sound like he's trying to use reverse psychology. He sounds sincere.

"Nothing. I just wasn't expecting you to actually agree with me." It's going to take a second for Sam to catch up. He was prepared for an argument of epic proportions and now, he doesn't have to argue anything.

"So what's the new plan?" Dean asks.

A few minutes later finds them on the other side of the building. Sam's always been faster at picking locks, a fact that annoys Dean to no end but Sam thinks is only fair since Dean is faster at everything else. So Sam's kneeling by the side door, lock pick inserted, while Dean absently shakes his can of spray paint. It's strange not to hear the usual string of muttered reasons why Sam's plan is a terrible one and how much fun he's sucking out of the job, and couldn't they just do Dean's plan anyway? But Dean's quiet behind him.

The door springs open because Sam's never met a lock he couldn't pick, and then they're slipping inside. There's a long hallway in front of them, offices dotted along the length of it. Despite the late evening hour, nearly every light in the building is on. At least they won't have to worry about running into random stragglers though. That's one good thing about this whole hive mind situation. All the council members are in the lobby, munching on a unanimously chosen dessert bar.

When they get to the main meeting hall, Dean tosses Sam a second spray can. "Where'd you say this thing was again?"

Sam points to the bulletin board hanging on the far wall. "Behind there."

They cross the room and lift the board off the nails that hold it up, leaning it against the front row of folding chairs to keep it out of their way. Now that it's gone, the collection of magical symbols are easy to see.

Dean shakes his head. "Wonder which one of them was the genius who put these up."

"Doesn't matter. We just need to put up the ones for the counter-spell and this will all be over."

"You sure?" Dean checks.

Sam lifts a shoulder. "Pretty sure."

A slight frown is the only response Dean makes before he gives his can of paint a final shake and then starts to spray. Sam gets to work too.

"Dude!" He says a minute later.

"What?" Dean pauses, glances over at him.

Sam yanks his phone from his pocket and shoves it in Dean's face. "This is what you're supposed to be making."

The picture quality isn't great but it's enough of a reminder. Dean squints at the photo, then pulls back to compare his handiwork on the wall. "That looks nothing like it, does it?"

"You think?" Sam snips.

"Huh." Dean scratches the back of his head. "Sorry. I don't know what I was thinking." A new patch of wall becomes fresh canvas for him and he starts over.

Sam watches him just long enough to make sure he's doing it correctly. Then he finishes his own half of the work. He's putting the final touches on the last symbol when Dean pitches his empty can straight into the wastebasket near the door and heads over to the bulletin board.

"Wait! We have to let these dry first." Sam catches him right as he lifts it off the chairs.

"Really?" Dean sighs.

"They have to dry properly or else it won't work."

And then they'd have to do this whole thing all over again, which is something Sam would rather not have to do. Sure, the hive mind city council isn't the most dangerous situation he's ever encountered. It's not even in his top hundred. No one's died yet, although there have been several traffic accidents. Not to mention all the awkward domestic logistics. These people may be harmless idiots but they're under the power of dark magic and that's something he can't ignore.

With a dramatic huff, Dean drops the board. As if it's happening in slow motion, Sam can see how it all plays out before the actual disaster happens. The bottom edge hits the polished floor, sliding without traction. It tips over, knocks into the nearest chair. The chair collapses, metal legs clattering together and smacking onto the floor with an echoing clamor. There's only enough time for Dean to wince sheepishly and then the double doors are thrown open and a dozen politicians stand between the Winchesters and freedom.

"This isn't what it looks like." It's really just a formality for Sam to even try to explain.

No one ever wants to listen. The fine officials of this Virginian town are no exception. Like backup dancers in a musical, the council members all cross their arms in perfect synchronicity. A familiar click of metal has Sam reaching for Dean and the gun he pulled from his waistband.

"Dean, no!"

But it's too late. The sight of the weapon triggers the survival instincts of the bewitched group and they move toward the threat like a pod of killer whales.

"Split up!" Sam yells.

"What?" Dean's reluctant to lower the gun.

"Meet back at the car!"

He has no idea if this plan is a good one but he figures at this point, they might as well try it. So he takes off one way and Dean sprints in the other and it actually confuses the men and women enough to give them a head start. Unfortunately though, the group of enchanted victims doesn't divide to conquer. Instead, they decide Sam is the bigger threat and swarm him. Getting mobbed by a bunch of people in business attire was never on Sam's bucket list. Yet, here he is, getting mobbed by a bunch of people in business attire. He should get the 'I survived a small town government horde' t-shirt.

It doesn't help that they're human. He really doesn't want to hurt them. On the other hand, they seem to have no qualms about injuring him. They cut off his escape and press him into the corner, using any means they can to corral him. Fists, purses, clipboards, high heels, plastic forks smudged with buttercream frosting. Anything they have available. He's playing defensive at the moment, holding up his arms the way he was taught to protect his head from the worst of the hits.

All he has to do is withstand the onslaught until Dean steps in. He'll probably fire a couple of rounds into the ceiling, an efficient way to draw attention to himself. Sam wonders if these people will remember everything that happened while they were under the spell's control. He hopes not. It will be much easier if he and Dean can skip town without having to talk their way out first.

Anytime Dean wants to jump in would be great. The crowd isn't showing signs of letting up. Sam can take a lot, but this is getting to be ridiculous. There's icing in his hair, paper cuts along the backs of his hands, and bruises forming on his shins. He peeks out from his self-made shelter but Dean is nowhere in sight.

Whether it's bad timing or the bad luck he's been cursed with since birth, the moment Sam chooses to lower his defenses to try and spot Dean is the same moment one of the men improvises a weapon out of a folding chair. The seatback collides with the top of his spine and he topples like a felled oak tree. Black dots fizzle in his eyesight, like mosquitoes on a sugar high. The change in altitude means he's a lot more susceptible to those heels that are a lot sharper than they look.

Right as he's imagining how embarrassing it would be to outlast his destiny, to defeat vampires and ghosts and wendigos on a weekly basis, to be able to exorcise demons with nothing more than the power of his mind, to do all of that only to end up killed by some middle aged, nine to five humans, the beating stops. Confused murmuring fills the room and Sam strains to identify Dean's voice in the commotion. When he can't, and there's no hand reaching through the throng of recently unenchanted politicians, Sam pushes himself up into a sitting position.

All the men and women are looking around at each other in bewilderment. Apparently they don't remember. That's fine with Sam. Dragging himself to his feet, he skirts around them while they're conveniently distracted. Each step prompts a grimace but the injuries are all superficial. They'll fade in a day or two. Nothing to worry about.

He gets outside okay and walks around to the side and feels his temper boiling hotter than soup on a stove. Dean's sitting casual as can be in the driver's seat of the Impala. Sam climbs in and slams the door. He glares at Dean's reproach to treat his baby with care.

"Where were you?" he demands.

A finger twirls around to encompass the car's interior. "You said to meet at the car."

"I was getting pounded in there!"

Dean shrugs flippantly. "I don't know. I don't see any blood."

Sam thrusts his hands into Dean's personal space. The paper cuts are difficult to see in the dark but Dean gets the message anyway.

"Sorry. I didn't realize you needed help with the mayor and his cronies."

A huff and then Sam crosses his arms. "I kind of did."

"You said split up," Dean defends. "And," he adds, "you said you didn't want me protecting you."

Sam shifts in his seat. "Well, yeah, but-"

"This is me not protecting you."

If it wasn't for the gravity in Dean's voice, Sam would think he was playing a joke. Leaving Sam to face a few humans really isn't a big deal. But Dean's talking as if he would have done the same thing if they were vampires. Like he's actually going to leave Sam on his own and not come and rescue him when things don't turn out the way Sam planned, which is usually always. And sure, Sam had to deal with that for a few weeks while Dean was gone but now he's back and it's easy to fall into old habits, rely on that safety net, trust that big brother is going to be there to save him.

OoOoOoO

When they get to the motel, Sam storms inside and closets himself in the bathroom. He takes stock of his body in the mirror. There's nothing new there though, just the aches, bruises, and scrapes that will be gone in a day or so. Although, maybe that's a black eye forming and those take a little longer.

Even after he's splashed some cold water on his face and washed the smell of paint from his hands, he stays in there. Waiting on Dean to make the first move. Because, sure, Sam asked him to leave but he wasn't actually supposed to leave. And it isn't really about this case anyway. It's about Dean's self-destructive need to put Sam ahead of himself, which had never been more clearly demonstrated than by his trip downstairs a few weeks ago. Sam's got needs of his own. He needs Dean to stop. Stop that behavior. Because it kills Sam to see his brother disregard his own worth like that. And Sam really, really doesn't need the pressure it places on him. Being the only reason another person lives and breathes? It's kind of like having a mountain sit on your chest, squashing your lungs like soft dough while proclaiming how safe its presence is going to keep you. Sam's looking for a teammate, not a bodyguard.

The knock on the door, Dean's signature attempt at an apology thinly disguised as checking on Sam, never comes. Sam sighs and resigns himself to making the first move. It's time for a heart to heart and if Dean doesn't want to hear it, well, that's never stopped Sam in the past. He opens the door, mentally drawing a flowchart for the upcoming conversation.

Dean's sitting on the bed on his side of the room. He must not notice Sam because he's just sitting there. He's not watching tv or sharpening his knives or cleaning the guns. He's sitting still. That alone is enough to jar Sam because Dean is never still. He's fingers tapping on the steering wheel and knee bouncing under the table at the diner and pencils bounced against newspapers. He's impatience and adrenaline and hyperactivity. Seeing him like this...Sam's first thought is that Dean's having some kind of flashback. That he's lost inside the memories in his mind. But Dean's eyes are focused. His face is calm. It's as if he's perfectly content to impersonate a statue in the middle of the motel room.

"Hey," Sam says softly, to avoid startling him because Sam's not quite ready to rule out PTSD.

"Hey," Dean returns without missing a beat. "You done in there?"

There should be a joke coming about Sam's personal grooming habits, a dig about how long he took to primp. Sam's waiting for it, even as Dean grabs a towel and a change of clothes, and heads off to the shower. Sam's sudden grab for his elbow as he passes stops him.

Dean raises an eyebrow. "You are not getting an invitation to join me."

Repulsed by the very idea, Sam releases him in an instant. But he's not going to let him get away so easily. This conversation hasn't even begun and Dean's already running. Of course, Dean doesn't even know yet that there's going to be a conversation. If he did, he would probably be in the nearest bar, finding alcoholic and/or curvy distractions to pass the time until he thinks Sam will be asleep so he can sneak back in and then pretend nothing's wrong the next morning.

"Look, Dean-"

A sharp knock on the door startles both men. Sam looks from the door to Dean, who looks back with a shrug. It's too late for room service, and they haven't ordered take out. Bobby's in South Dakota and the rest of their admittedly small group of friends don't keep close enough tabs to know their location. So the only reason someone's at the door is to kill them. Most monsters don't bother with civilities like knocking, so Sam's pretty sure he knows who it is. But Dean doesn't know and he's already moving toward the door.

"Wait. I got it. It's just the pizza." Sam heads him off.

"You ordered pizza? When? While you were in the bathroom?" The wrinkle of Dean's nose is definitely skeptical.

"Just go take your shower." It comes out harsher than Sam means but it does the trick because the bathroom door gets shut and the water turns on. Meanwhile, the pounding on the door increases and Sam finally yanks it open. There's five feet and three inches of irked demon waiting for him on the stoop.

"Ruby. What a pleasant surprise." Dean isn't the only one who can use sarcasm.

She invites herself into the room, shouldering past him.

"Make yourself at home." Sam rolls his eyes and closes the door.

"Why haven't you answered my calls?" Sometimes Sam wonders if Ruby knows how to do anything else with her arms besides cross them.

"I've been busy."

"Busy?"

A wave of the hand encompasses the research on the table and the duffels thrown on the beds. "Yes, busy. I was working a case."

"The only thing you're supposed to be working is your mind. This is like exercise, Sam. Consistency is key. If you're not maintaining it, you're not only making no progress, you're actually going backward."

"We already talked about this…" Sam drops into the single provided armchair.

"No, last time we talked, you were having some kind of breakdown, spouting off about Dean being back."

"I'm not crazy, Ruby."

Sam's never sure whether to be freaked out or not when Ruby does her whole comfort routine. She kneels down in front of his chair, runs a hand from his temple to his jaw, rubs the pad of her thumb along the end of his chin.

"I know you miss him. But it was just a dream. You had a very realistic dream and it messed you up. It's okay. It's okay, though. I'm here. I'm here with you, Sam. And I'll help you. I can make you strong. When you're strong, you won't hurt so much."

"Get a room."

Ruby snaps to her feet and Sam jumps in his seat. "Dean!"

Still fully dressed, Dean's leaning in the bathroom doorway, the shower running unused behind him.

"How long have you been standing there?" Sam wonders.

Dean pushes away from the door frame. "Long enough." He shifts his gaze to Ruby and he narrows his eyes. "Look, Sam said he's not interested. So why don't you go peddle your Mr. Miyagi act somewhere else."

Sam stands. "Dean…"

"Sam, what is he?"

Ruby's question jolts Sam. "What?"

"What am I? What are you?" Dean shoots back.

Ruby takes a step away from him. "Sam?"

"What are you talking about? He's Dean. He's human. I checked." Sam stands, positioning himself between Dean and Ruby.

"He's...he's nothing I've ever seen before." Ruby's retreat takes her to the wall and she bumps into it, staring wide eyed at Dean.

"Come on. You're not actually listening to this, are you, Sam?" Dean snaps.

The only thing Sam's ever seen Ruby scared of is Lilith. "Christo," he whispers.

Dean's eyes, as green as ever, shutter with betrayal. "I'm not a demon."

Sam turns back to Ruby. "I'm telling you, he passed every check Bobby and I could think of."

"I don't know what he is, but he's not Dean," Ruby hisses.

"Sam." Dean's voice draws his attention. "She's screwing with you. She wants you to ditch me so she can use you to kill off her competition."

"Oh, this is so much bigger than just killing Lilith."

"Then what is it about?" Sam asks.

Ruby shakes her head minutely. Then there's a painted fingernail stabbed at Dean from a safe distance. "He's hollow."

"Hollow?"

"Yes. Empty, transparent, void."

Dean moves forward. "Cut it out."

"Look, if he were some kind of ghost or spirit or shifter or, hell, even a demon, I would be able to see him. Or, well, his energy, at least. But Sam," Ruby slides over to him, keeping his bulk between herself and Dean, "there's nothing there."

"Hey, I'm here. I'll prove it, okay?" Dean leans forward. Takes Sam's wrist and presses his palm to his chest, over his heart. "See?"

It takes a moment but then Sam feels it. The steady beat hidden beneath fabric and skin. Dean releases his wrist. Sam's hand falls away slowly, slowly.

"Ruby…" He's more weary of her tricks than he is angry at them.

"That doesn't prove anything. He's not real."

Okay, so maybe he's still plenty angry. "Stop it. I'm not going with you. Dean is real."

"You don't believe me? Fine. Let me prove it." Ruby plants herself in front of Dean, though still with reasonable space between them. "Tell me, Dean, how'd you get out of Hell?"

Dean's eyes flick to Sam before coming back to Ruby. "I, um...the thing Sam did..."

"The Devil's Gate," Sam supplies.

Dean snaps his fingers. "Yeah, that's right. The Devil's Gate."

"The what?"

"I know we thought it didn't work but obviously it did," Sam says.

"We?"

Sam arches a brow. "Yes, we. You and me, Ruby. Don't you remember?"

"We've never even been near a Devil's Gate."

"Give it up, Ruby." This whole charade of hers is getting kind of old. "I clearly remember being in Wyoming and opening the door. I held back the demons so the other spirits could escape."

"You've been in Virginia for the past week and a half."

Sam frowns. "Then it must have been before that."

"Before that we were in Ohio. And Maine before that."

"You're lying." Sam wishes his voice sounded more forceful, less wobbly with doubt.

"Check your phone GPS." Ruby juts out a hip.

It would take way too long to track down that information. Sam needs answers right now.

"So I did dream that part. But Dean got here somehow." He runs his hands through his hair. "Maybe, ah, maybe it was a miracle. Maybe…" He faces Dean as an idea occurs to him. "Dean, did...God bring you back?"

Dean's brow creases before he nods slowly. "I think-I think so. Yeah. Definitely."

"Didn't you just say it was Sam opening the Devil's Gate?" In that moment, Sam thinks Ruby would have made one hell of a lawyer. She's got cross examination down to a science.

"No, it was a miracle from the Man Upstairs." There's an unsteady smile on Dean's face, like it's not sure if it's supposed to be there or not.

"Or what if there was something in the contract? Like the fine print." Sam suggests. "Dean went to Hell for me but they never said how long he had to stay there."

Ruby snorts. "It's Hell. It's pretty much a one way trip."

"Apparently not, sweetheart." Dean opens his arms wide, smug. "You're looking at the product of a legal loophole."

"Which is it? You've given me three explanations." Ruby holds up a hand to stall his answer. "And all of them came from Sam."

Now that it's been pointed out, Sam sees it too. Worry and doubt curl around his brain, meowing like hungry kittens. "How did you get here, Dean?"

All the smugness and the smiles have fallen off Dean's face. He looks small and scared, and nothing like Sam's brother. "I don't know. I don't know."

"That's not good enough! We need to know what happened to you." Sam's fists are clenching at his sides.

"I don't know!" Dean repeats, frantic.

"I think I might know."

Sam whirls on Ruby, because apparently she got to snooping while he and Dean were talking. She's at the table, sliding an open book toward him. Suspicious and curious in equal measure, Sam comes over to look.

Ruby taps the yellowed page softly. "Look familiar?"

Heart sinking, Sam recognizes it. "A Tibetan spirit sigil." Not realizing what it was sooner is a testament to how off his game he was since Dean died.

Dean joins them at the table, face pensive when he catches sight of the symbol. "Wait. I know what that is." It's the same one he started painting in city hall before Sam put him back on track for the counter-spell. "Isn't that the sigil from that house? The Hell House? A couple years back, with the teenagers and those Ghostbuster wannabes?"

Sam's knees are gradually buckling and he lowers himself into a seat on the end of the nearby bed. "The tulpa." Hands scrubbing down his face, he meets Ruby's gaze. "But doesn't a tulpa require the belief and concentration of a bunch of people? I mean, the very first tulpa took twenty monks to bring it to life. And the one we encountered had literally hundreds of websurfers visiting the Hellhound website."

"In case you forgot, you're not like other people, Sam."

Ruby's reminder is far from comforting. So Sam's powers are coming around to bite him yet again. Figures.

"Hold on," Dean interrupts. "You're not trying to say that I'm-"

Whatever expression Sam's wearing, it must be an answer all on its own because Dean never finishes his question. His mouth shuts with a click and he sort of just stands there, looking at Sam.

For his part, Sam lets his eyes wander right past Dean, focusing on Ruby. "Maybe this could work."

"Sam, we just agreed that he's not real. He's only here because your wishful thinking, combined with your abilities, was channeled through this sigil."

"So?" It's like new energy is flooding Sam. He can't sit still. Leaping from the bed, he paces an agitated line across the carpet. "All I have to do is keep the sigil with me. I could even get a tattoo just in case I ever lose the book." He spins on his heel, face split nearly in two by his grin. "This could work!"

Because maybe it is only a thoughtform but it's better than nothing. Sam can have his brother back. He doesn't have to be alone.

"Sammy?"

When he turns to Dean, he isn't prepared for the way Dean flickers. Like a ghost.

"No. Hey. Dean. No. Hey. No, no, no."

It's all just babble. Meaningless noise rolling off his tongue because this is losing Dean all over again. Dean flickers again, but reaches out. Clasps Sam's forearm against his.

"You keep fighting, you hear?"

"No. Please! Dean, wait." Tears, hot and acidic, sting Sam's eyes. "I can keep you here. The sigil!"

Dean smiles a sad broken smile.

"It's too late, Sam." Ruby's hand on his other shoulder. "You know what he is now. And tulpas can't exist without belief."

A shaky inhale barely gives Sam enough oxygen to keep the black spots from taking over his vision. Light-headed and dizzy, he grips tighter to Dean's arm. Then he's left holding empty air when Dean fades. Dean fades and Sam's been eviscerated.

"Sam-"

"What good are these powers if I can't even…" Sam bites his lip. Doesn't actually want to finish.

"You can use them to kill Lilith. To get revenge for what she did to Dean. You can-"

"Shut up, Ruby. Just go."

She does and Sam's alone. Again. Again and again and again. Always alone.

OoOoOoO

Somewhere in Virginia, there's a town with graffiti painted in the city hall, newspaper headlines so bizarre they'll be talked about for generations, and charred remains of an ancient religious textbook out behind the motel.

Bobby calls him as he's crossing the Tennessee line. "You boys on your way?"

"Sorry, Bobby. I'm shouldn't have said anything to you earlier."

A creak as Bobby leans forward in his chair. "What do you mean?"

"Dean's not here."

"What happened, Sam?"

"...It was just a dream."


End file.
